


Wild Silence

by forever_bright



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forever_bright/pseuds/forever_bright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's raining, they're sodden. Holmes still won't say the words Watson wants to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Silence

The offending sentence was far from innocent on Watson’s part. He said it deliberately, challengingly. Watson’s room was already half-packed and Holmes was fingering the morocco case that was poorly hidden under a pile of newspapers. The situation was deteriorating rapidly, but in silence. One of them staring moodily and the other ignoring the staring with rigid determination.

Then Holmes, in a moment of raw impulsiveness, asked Watson what he thought he was achieving by leaving Baker Street. And Watson responded with ‘and what exactly should I stay for, Holmes?’

Holmes swallowed, frowned and said nothing. His talent for creating the perfect sentence failed him; no magic remedy rolled off his tongue. Watson gripped the book he was holding more tightly for a moment and then dropped it sharply. It thudded into the worn rug with more aggression than Watson had dared show to Holmes in weeks.

Abruptly, the doctor hurried from the room and Holmes followed without a thought. London was in the mist of a horrendous storm; the usually clogged streets were washed empty and there was near darkness, although the hour was still early. Wet sheets of rain, beating the sound down into the dirt, smothered yelled words. Undistinguishable roaring circled through the steel coloured sky. Watson had had the foresight to pull on a coat. Holmes had not.

Within five steps the detective had rivets of water sliding from his hair down his back. He could barely see Watson ahead and came close to walking straight into his halted figure. Watson, blinking drops out of his eyes and huddling close the building on his left, stared at Holmes. He was tense, clearly without his usual reserves of patience that allowed him to manage Holmes and everything that came with him.

Watson repeated his question. He added more. ‘What am I in Baker Street, Holmes? What am I? Who have I been to you?’

It was more nonsensical than most sentences Watson uttered. He was distressed and having to shout over the whip of rain.

‘You’ve been-’ Holmes began and then stalled, his cold laced lungs unable to force out the words.

‘I’ve been what, Holmes?’ pushed Watson, his anger now thin and controlled, projecting the words from his lips with crisp force, ‘A good, loyal dog?’

This had always been Watson’s intrinsic appeal to Holmes; his stout refusal to accept the few limitations Holmes accepted in his own character. He would always force Holmes to say the hard sentences. He would never stop striving to make the detective a better man.

‘You _know_ what, Watson,’ Holmes managed after a moment, his mouth tightening into a perplexed line. The conversation only grew more intolerable.

A new torrent of rain hit them, the angry swirl of water caused both men to look down in order to shelter their eyes. A single cab flew past them, breaking into the intimate stage of the deserted, howling street that, until then, they alone had occupied. Water was now sliding down the back of Holmes’s thighs causing involuntary trembles to race up his spine. Watson considered him. The doctor had one arm keeping his sodden coat close to his chest while he leant heavily on his cane. Holmes concluded that his leg must be greatly troubled by the icy water assaulting them. A thick stream of moisture was dripping down Watson’s nose.

‘I’m afraid not, Holmes,’ the doctor replied after the drawn out pause.

Holmes’s mouth twitched again, water now soaking his socks. They stared at each other and Holmes’ over stimulated imagination wrote a shouting match into their silence. He can’t say the words Watson wants. Never has…

‘Very well,’ Watson murmured, pulling himself back. He shrugged his hunched shoulders and water flew off them, barely distinguishable in the general downpour. Holmes felt a shaky, foggy breath push out from his lips; but no words. Watson looked for another second – plain, ugly desperation suddenly marring the lines of his face – then he turned his back to Holmes. He moved away into the street, limp overly exaggerated, and the rain soon cloaked him from Holmes view.

The realisation that he was completely drenched and it was not possible for him to get any more sodden did not account for the cold weight circling Holmes’s chest. Icy, _painful_ fingers squeezed his diaphragm and forced a short, choked gasp from him. The rain increased its incensed assault in wild silence.


End file.
